


Off The Record

by echoist (griesly)



Category: The Following
Genre: AU after the bar scene, Episode 2.01, Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griesly/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They size each other up like old acquaintances, reunited. They shake hands as if they've only just met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off The Record

 

Mike Weston hates hospitals. He stands awkwardly in the tiny, too-white room, unable to speak. Ryan Hardy lies still and bandaged in the uncomfortably small bed, hooked up to machines that whirr and beep, and it brings it all back; the days he'd spent in intensive care, the way Ryan had been the first face he'd seen when he finally woke up. The strong hand wrapped around his shaking fingers, the instant relief rushing through his veins in a flood of welcome warmth. The way Ryan had held him, bloody and broken, until the ambulance arrived.

Now their positions are reversed, and Mike can't bring himself to lie, can't echo the words Ryan had whispered over and over again. _It's going to be all right_. Nothing was going to be all right, not ever again, and Mike's too exhausted, too deep in shock to give comfort.

The first word out of Ryan's mouth is Claire, and of course it is. Of course. There was nothing else he could have said in that moment, and Mike can't tell him, can't defy the orders from on high. Claire wasn't out of the woods, not by a mile, but she was safe and far away and Ryan could never see her again. Mike shakes his head, his face made of stone, unable to give away the secret that would bring Ryan back from the brink.

_You don't have to lie for me, Mike._

The pain in Ryan's face rips something open in him, a wound all the doctors in the world couldn't stitch back up.

 

Ryan doesn't return his calls. He tries, and tries again, until it borders on desperation. He doesn't just need to talk, he needs _Ryan_ and Ryan doesn't need him back. The knowledge sharpens him to a keen edge and he works every case he can find, makes a fresh pot of coffee at two a.m. and pours over the files until the words on the pages all blur together. Until there's nothing but the job and his hell-bound determination to find the answer to questions he won't speak aloud. He can't afford another mistake, another wrong turn. Mike's conscience eats him alive but he starves it, refusing to let it gnaw at his bones while he tosses and turns, unable to sleep. He earns just as many public commendations for valor as private warnings for recklessness and each day he wakes up thinking this time it will be different. This time, he'll make it before it's too late.

Then it's May, and he's in Brooklyn for a conference and Mike doesn't think about the distance from the hotel to Ryan's loft, doesn't mentally trace the stops along the subway line that would take him to Ryan's door. He talks a good game, makes it through his presentations on the validity of behavioral analysis by challenging his detractors with cold, hard facts. His profiles are solid, relentlessly so, driven by that singular focus that lets him ignore the throbbing in his skull while he stares at boards cluttered with photocopies and blood-soaked images he'd rather forget. Yellow pushpins and lines of string weaving a cat's cradle around his hastily scribbled notes, all for that moment when everything snaps into place and he _knows_. Three arrests in as many months, and he lets the marshals or the LEOs have the collar because he doesn't need it. His star is rising and Mike can't find it in himself to care.

Today he stalked back and forth across the dais, wielding his laser pointer like a blade, letting the results speak for themselves. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the premature lines at the corners daring anyone to challenge his methods, and few braved the waters in the face of his unyielding confidence. Mike knows when he's right, feels it like a knot in his gut because _this,_ this is why the blood still pumps through his veins. This hard-won order born of violence lives in his bones and tingles across his skin like static he can't shake off. He can't afford to second-guess. Can't afford to be wrong, not again.

Exhaustion dogs his steps as he leaves the hotel lobby to wander the streets. It's a cool spring night and the air feels good rushing along his skin. He's catching the red eye home, but all he wants is a good stiff drink to stop the buzzing in his head. He picks a bar at random, doesn't even look at the sign, and stops dead in his tracks just inside the door. For a moment, he thinks it's sleep deprivation, just his mind playing tricks. But there he is - Ryan Hardy, drunk to the gills, swaying to a song Mike doesn't know with a beautiful woman on each arm. He's a terrible dancer, and Mike files that away with the countless other observations he's stuffed in a drawer in the back of his mind.

Ryan's face lights up when he sees him, crossing the room unsteadily to throw his arms around Mike in a fumbling embrace. Mike can smell the alcohol on his breath, and even that brings back memories. Standing before the wall of monitors, briefing the hastily assembled task force because the clock was ticking and every second that went by took Joe Carroll further out of reach. Managing not to stumble over his words when he sees him, standing calm and collected at the back of the room. Ryan Hardy, in the flesh, listening to him speak. Ryan Hardy, correcting him because Mike knew he would, because it forced him to join the dialogue. Starstruck was too weak a word.

Now, in some nameless dive in a city Mike had always hated, Ryan's hands are on him, all over him, wrapping around the back of his neck and pulling him close. He smiles as though he means it, smiles in a way Mike had never seen, and something squeezes, painful and tight in his chest. _Of all the gin joints in all the world_ , his mind offers up, his thoughts spiralling off the rails as his fingers graze over Ryan's arm and slide hesitantly down his side. Several slurred introductions follow to people Mike's certain Ryan barely knows himself, one arm slung about his shoulders, and then Mike's sitting him down before he _falls_ down. Ryan tosses back a tumbler of whiskey and Mike swallows what he wants to say, his tongue dry and too large inside his mouth.

They talk business, but even that isn't safe as Ryan laughs a little too loudly and Mike all but begs to take the fall. He knows he's too earnest, knows he's showing his cards, but this is too important for Ryan to fuck up out of sheer cussedness and apathy. Ryan's smile fades as he listens, the words finally sinking in and Mike pushes his chair back abruptly.

'C'mon,' he says, a bit sternly. 'I'm going to get you home.'

'Now you want to take me home?' Ryan answers, his good humor returning with a smirk.

'Your home,' Mike repeats unnecessarily, helping Ryan to his feet. They exit the bar with little fanfare, Mike's hand resting in the small of Ryan's back. He doesn't trust Ryan on the stairs down to the subway, so they walk in silence, Mike's steadying hand making up for Ryan's off-kilter gait. It seems like an eternity before Ryan speaks, his words mumbled and full of drunken regret.

'You know I'm sorry, right?' he asks, staring straight ahead. 'For the way things went down.'

'Me too,' Mike replies, his voice low and hollow.

'If it could have gone another way -' Ryan shakes his head, his steps slowing, and Mike matches his pace.

'I know,' he answers carefully, not sure if they're still talking about Debra or something else entirely. When they finally reach Ryan's building, Mike holds down the elevator button until the doors open with a tired ding. Ryan stumbles over the threshold, and Mike slips an arm around his waist, holding him up.

Ten stories go by with a rhythmic mechanical groan, Ryan slumped against the wall, eyes shut against the motion. His head lolls to one side, resting briefly on Mike's shoulder. _You're going to get him to his door,_ Mike mentally admonishes. _You're going to make sure he can actually get_ in _the door. And then you're going back to the hotel._

The doors slide open and Ryan pushes himself away from the wall, shaking his head a bit as if to clear it. His apartment is only a few doors down, and he manages to make the trip without much assistance, for which Mike finds himself profoundly grateful. At least, until Ryan opens his mouth.

'So are you going to come in, or what?' Ryan asks, tilting his head to one side as he looks up. Mike keeps his hands in the pocket of his jacket, shifting from one foot to the other.

'I -' he stammers. 'I've got an early flight out, I really shouldn't.'

'Bullshit,' Ryan rebuffs him with a sly smile. 'You didn't walk me all the way to my door to just turn around and leave.'

Mike closes his eyes. This isn't happening, not now, not like this. 'You're drunk,' he states bluntly, finally daring to look back up.

'True,' Ryan admits, tilting his head back. 'But you're not.'

'Ryan,' Mike sighs, struggling to pretend this isn't what he's wanted ever since the man sat down next to him in []. Since Ryan Hardy became a person instead of an intellectual ideal, a flawed yet brilliant personality at his back, in his car, in his life. His reality, instead of just his hero.

Ryan takes a small step forward, and Mike bites his lip. He forgets sometimes that he's not the only one who can read intent in the lines of the body, can analyse and predict a subject's next move. Ryan hadn't made his career out of lucky guesses and showing up at the right time. Ryan's hand reaches out to wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him close, and Mike's better judgment leaves the building.

When Ryan kisses him, it's sloppy at first, and Mike can taste the smoky burn of whiskey on his lips. Ryan's hands are everywhere, running through his close-cropped hair, sliding down his neck and across his collarbone to land on his chest. Mike knows Ryan can feel his heart pounding beneath his palm, and he pushes him back gently against the door. His hand moves to guide Ryan's jaw up at just the right angle, letting what little control he still possesses make up for the uneven parting of lips and tongue. God, it's good, it's so good, and Mike never thought he could have this. He pulls back with a quick gasp for breath, and lets his forehead rest against Ryan's warm skin.

Ryan's hand fumbles in his pocket for his keys and Mike covers it with his own. 'I can't,' he says, barely audible in the still and silent hallway. Ryan tenses against him, and a flash bomb explodes in Mike's mind. Floored, he wonders how he could have missed it, how much of Ryan's drunken antics were just for show. Wonders if any of this would have happened if one of them weren't pretending. Ryan's mouth opens and closes, his lips brushing Mike's ear as if wanting to speak, but the right words simply don't exist.

'You would have taken anyone home from that bar,' Mike declares, unable to keep the harshness from his tone. It's not true, and he knows it, but it's what he needs to say.

'You think so?' Ryan asks as Mike pulls away, his face turned toward the dim glow of the exit sign.

Mike doesn't answer, not directly. 'Remember what I said when you get on the stand,' he forces out instead, stepping back from Ryan's heat and stubbornly changing the subject. 'You were emotional. You acted impulsively.' He keeps his tone even, steady, despite the ache in his chest and the hot, conflicted tangle in his gut. 'It was self-defense, nothing more.'

'You also said I left you,' Ryan counters, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

'Yeah, well,' Mike throws over his shoulder, stopping in his path toward the stairs. 'That's because you did.' He hears a small thump as Ryan lets his head fall back against the door, followed by the clank and jangle of keys sliding into the lock. He waits just inside the stairwell until he hears the door close behind him.

 

Mike Weston still hates hospitals. He waits for the other agents in the cold, off-white reception room at Manhattan Memorial, shuffling his feet and trying not to breathe in the antiseptic stench. The hallways to either side stretch away like the never-ending pan of a camera, only to end in doors no one ever wants to find themselves behind.

A set of those double doors swings open, and Mike stares, eyes narrowing, as Ryan Hardy walks through. Two agents walk slightly behind, and by the look of them, they'd rather be anywhere else on the planet at this very moment. Mike can't really blame them.

Ryan stops a casual distance away as Mike squares his shoulders and lifts his head. They size each other up like old acquaintances, reunited. They shake hands as if they've only just met.

'So what am I doing here?' Ryan asks, something conspiratorial in the question.

'What am _I_ doing here?' Mike counters, unconsciously leaning in and lowering his voice. He doesn't let go of Ryan's hand, and Ryan doesn't look away until the sound of footsteps echoes down the corridor behind them.

Introductions pass by in a blur, and Hardy makes them wait, finally turning to address Agent Mendes, visibly prickling with impatience, and Agent Phillips, wearing a long-suffering smile. 'No,' he answers to her questions. 'No,' and 'I'm sorry,' and 'No,' again. His eyes dart back to Mike's at a critical moment, and he almost misses it, he really does -

Agent Mendes gives them up for a lost cause and strides back down the linoleum, Phillips trailing in her wake. Ryan quirks his lips in a familiar half-smile, and Mike knows exactly what it means. They're off the books now, intentionally or otherwise, and that's precisely what makes them work. Mike inclines his head sharply toward the witness' room and Ryan just nods, motioning him ahead. Mike catches a breath of cool air through the swinging doors and hears their footfalls ring in tandem against the aging tile as everything snaps into place.


End file.
